Dear Adam
by UrbanTunes
Summary: With Adam gone to military school, Eric is left disconcerted and confused. To get a better grip on his feelings, he puts them down in a letter to Adam... Btw, I do not own the characters in this story.
1. Chapter 1

Dear Adam,

I think this is the first letter I've ever written – though I don't think it'll ever get posted… but I just feel so messed up at the moment. And when I tried to talk about it, you threatened to kill me, so I'm just gonna write all this crap down so I don't drown in it. I just don't know, man…

I mean, how f***ed up can one single person be? What the heck were you even playing at, exactly?

Are we supposed to be together now, or are we just… what are we? I seriously don't get it. How could you go from tormenting me, humiliating me, threatening me to f***ing me in ten seconds? Did it make you feel powerful or something? Are you that sick, or do you just not have a clue how to treat others? And how sick am I for enjoying it?

Anyway, these days, school sucks even more than usual. It's buzzing with rumours about where you're gone to and what exactly happened and what the actual final straw was. Turns out people have been placing bets on how much longer you were going to last before being sent to military school. It's sick. I don't know how they derive pleasure from such crappy behaviour… me, I'm sorry. I've kind of felt sorry ever since I saw you with your dad at the dance. I didn't know it, but I have so much you don't have, that you'll probably never have…

Your dad is as cold as ice, man. I guess you've spent a lot of your life scared out of your wits… Maybe mil school isn't even that bad, eh? At least the teachers there are probably supposed to treat you like s**t. Dads are supposed to love us, so I guess it's worse if they don't. Or maybe that place is as bad as I imagine it…?

Man, I wish we could talk. I wish I knew what you were thinking when you… I mean, I don't even know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn't thinking anything. It just felt good, you know? It did, you should know that. And I wouldn't even mind repeating the experience, you know? But you're not here.

What am I supposed to do now? Should I wait around or something? I can't picture you writing me soppy letters, let alone calling me. What's more, rumour has it that such places are crammed with gay guys. Might keep you busy anyway, eh? Sorry, bad joke, I guess.

Tell you what, I'm not gonna read through this ever again. That's the only way I stand a chance of ever posting it. And if I don't, you don't even have my address. So I'll try.

Bye then. Take care.

CU in the holidays (maybe).

Eric


	2. Chapter 2

Dear Adam,

I reckon the teachers must think I'm going mad. My parents seem to worry about me at any rate. You'd think they'd be glad - for the past three weeks, I've been acing all my classes – which is not the usual course of event. Apparently, they are not glad, though.

You see, I've been trying to keep myself busy. I couldn't stand constantly thinking about the letter in my desk drawer. I tried to chuck it out several times, usually at night when I was lying awake. But I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

Instead, I've been trying to distract myself from the whole issue. Otis isn't much help, either. (You remember Otis – you used to call him "new kid", although it's our third year at the school.) All he thinks about is Ola. She's new at our school and she seems pretty cool, I concede – and Otis is trying not to make a big deal out of her. But I can tell. He thinks about her all the time. So what was left was school. And I started studying like the maniac I have become. I think I may have got cleverer already, at least my grades got better.

These past few days, though, it hasn't worked out any more. I couldn't fight it off any longer. I felt like my desktop had a spot that grows hot when I touched it, right where the drawer with letter was. It's probably crazy to believe that this could actually happen, and even crazier to continue writing letters in order to forget the letter already written. But it got worse, and so I did it. I posted it. And it's been sheer agony.

Consequently my marks are plummeting. Rapidly. I can't help it. I can't sleep. I'm still trying to figure out what all this means. I mean, I still don't know how to feel about it. About "us"? It looks strange even on the page. How was this thing ever going to work? Why you? And why me?

I just don't know. All I know is that something happened at the dance. That's where everything changed. That's where I got an idea of what you see when you look at me. I reckon you felt it, didn't you? You saw me clearly that night, and I saw you. (Which doesn't mean I saw this coming – I so didn't). But I think that's why I kept the letter. That's why I posted it. That's why I can't just drop this: you saw me. And you liked what you saw. And I liked what you saw, too, I guess.

Self-centred drivel, right? But I reckon that's who I am.

So this is where I stand. Now I have another few pages to avoid and distract myself from. Maybe my grades will pick up again. Maybe I'll crack again and post this one, too. Wait and see.

Until then, take care.

Eric


	3. Chapter 3

Dear Adam,

I'm doing it again. It's getting weirder and weirder writing these letters to you, because I reckon you are probably already home for the holidays. So wouldn't it be easier to come over and talk? Well, the answer is no. Obviously. So, here goes…

Before the beginning of the holidays, I cycled past your place almost every day. I don't really know why. I always looked out for you – although I knew that you couldn't possibly be there, mind. Now that there is a chance that you might be home… I haven't been past your house. I don't really know whether I want to see you.

Because I didn't post my last letter. It's still here. I'm not keeping it in the desk drawer this time, because of the hot spot. Instead I stashed it into my wardrobe. It's a better place, because my clothes give me good vibes. They're kind of like a shield that helps keep my senses together.

Anyway, I decided that I wasn't going to send another letter before I heard back from you. Which hasn't happened. Of course it hasn't – I can't even figure out how I could ever think you might actually write me a letter! I mean, as much as you obviously hate reading, I'm positive that you hate writing even more. Moreover, it would be a pretty gay thing to do. Am I right?

So, the agony continues. And I'm writing again, because it helps. It might not mean much to you, but it does help me. I did manage to keep up a streak of good marks, so my report card is uncommonly good. Now Otis has started to worry a bit, too, I think. What with his own relationship issues to deal with (I doubt you care about the details), he's not been doing all that well himself. Compared to his usual performance, I mean.

For me it's good, I guess. It's good to have one area of my life work out. And there's my family that I've come to appreciate more. They've actually been a source of distraction and comfort as well. Who would have guessed? Ha-ha…

But now that the holidays are here, distracting myself from you has become a greater challenge. I guess I might take up reading, or something. Or helping my parents around the house, redecorate and stuff. I don't know. If I pull through long enough, this thing is bound to go away, isn't it? It's got to. You got over it pretty quickly, it seems… so, that's the goal.

Or maybe, if I do manage to stop by, I might realize that it's over. That it wasn't even ever a thing. We'll see, I suppose.

Until then, take care. Or whatever.

Eric


End file.
